Thunder Within, Thunder Without

Wendigo War - Part I, Chapter 9 The Community Building contained three offices, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and the conference center, a large open room filled with fold-out metal chairs. A podium flanked by two long tables stood at the front, and a smaller table with a laptop and projector. On the left, seven chairs surrounded a wooden frame on the floor. The others remarked on the curious arrangement, but no one ventured to guess its purpose. As the hearing drew near, four men carried a big drum up the side aisle and placed it on the frame. Three more joined them to complete the circle. They each struck the drum, and its deep, thunderous voice echoed through the room. Martin approached them, explaining, “The drum’s ceremonial. The beats are the manitous, spirits voicing out when they’re moved by what’s said.”

John asked, “Do they speak when pleased or angry?” Bill shot him a sideways glance, expressing concern about his sanity.

“Both,” Martin said, smiling. “Don’t worry, you’ll know.”

When the clock struck seven, John asked, “Should we begin?”

“Better hold off,” Martin said. “More people coming and besides, we’re on Indian Time.”

Unsure what “Indian Time” meant, John waited. The turnout was impressive. Families with four or even five generations sat together, filling entire rows. The council members sat at the front. Among the canvas and jean jackets in the crowd, some wore beaded medallions or hair-pipe chokers. A woman walked around the room, carrying a large smoking seashell. As she brought it to each person, they wafted the white smoke over themselves. The aroma, faintly resembling marijuana, kindled college memories. Last year, Melissa confessed to trying weed with her dance team friends. Kids will be kids. The woman carrying the shell paused for a long time at the drum before moving to the front. Bill coughed and wore a disdainful scowl while Paul and Clark tried not to react. She giggled and said, “It’s sage. It purifies our spirit…gives us good thoughts.”

Martin approached the podium a quarter after seven and addressed the panel, “Boozhoo, I’m Chief Martin Kineu.” Turning to the audience, he continued, “Boozhoo niij-anishinaabedog. We’re meeting tonight to decide whether to allow Westlund Amecor to build two mines under the lake.”

Angry voices shouted, “No.”

“Alright, there’ll be time for testimony.” The crowd settled, and the Chief said, “We’re honored to have representatives from the company as our guests. They’re here to answer questions and listen to our thoughts about the mines. Let’s show them respect.” Martin motioned for John to step up to the podium.

“Hello, my name is John Watimer,” he said, “I’m a public relations representative from Westlund Amecor. We’re here tonight to present our proposal to construct two underground uraninite mines in Lake Mameigwess. We thank you for inviting us to your community. Nawadjiwon is among the most beautiful places I’ve ever visited.”

A young man in the back yelled, “Yeah, and we want to keep it that way.”

Boom-Ba-Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom.

Several thunderous drum beats resounded as the men brought their sticks down on its stretched hide. The spirits spoke. The other panel members appeared rattled, but John replied, “So do we. Our job is to keep this place beautiful.”

There was no thunder from the drum, only silent waiting.

“Five years ago,” he went on, “Westlund Amecor requested and received permission from your community to prospect for two potential uraninite mines. We conducted ground and air surveys and secured core samples, from which we learned the lake sits atop a massive uraninite occurrence. Worldwide demand for uranium is at an all-time high due to the global increase in dependence on nuclear power. Northern Ontario has been identified as the world's largest potential uranium ore deposit, outstripping even the Athabascan Basin in Saskatchewan. We plan to construct two underground mines, processing the raw uraninite ore into yellowcake onsite, which we will then ship via railway to uranium refining facilities in southern Ontario. Each mine is estimated to be active for thirty years, after which the company assumes responsibility for closing and rehabilitating costs. Our mines will increase the economic resources available to your community. One mine employs four to five hundred people but creates two to three thousand jobs in the supply and service sectors and retail sectors. Further, mining is the largest private-sector employer for First Nations citizens. Westlund Amecor plans to hire and train a large First Nations labor force. We also offer several profit-sharing initiatives, including scholarships and community-building programs. Also, the Ontario provincial government has committed substantial financial resources for infrastructure development. In sum, what we are offering your community is an opportunity.”

The crowd shifted in their seats, but the drum remained silent.

Encouraged, he continued, “Our purpose tonight is to begin a dialog which will lead to an Impact Benefit Agreement, a contract between your community and Westlund Amecor which outlines each party’s rights and responsibilities, along with stipulating environmental and cultural protections, infrastructure development, employment opportunities, and profit-sharing initiatives. We seek community input to prioritize cultural heritage, ecological health, and economic development. Our panel includes exploration geologist Clark Gagnon, who will offer scientific insight into the uraninite occurrence beneath the lake—”

Clark smiled and offered a small wave.

“—Paul Cadotte, our Senior Project Engineer, will discuss construction plans for the proposed mines and how we will contain waste.” Paul wore a neutral expression.

“—Bill Ray is our Environmental Regulations Advisor. He’ll explain provincial and federal environmental policies. He will discuss issues relating to the Environmental Impact Assessment.” Bill sat at attention.

“Our presentation will last for about half an hour. Afterward, we’ll open the floor for discussion.”

Clark approached the podium, lifting a fist-sized black rock in a clear case. “This is what all the fuss is about,” he began. “The uraninite ore located under Lake Mameigwess is what we call unconformity-related. It’s extremely concentrated between the sandstone and bedrock layers. We keep it secured in the case due to radioactivity.” Murmurs arose in the crowd. “Oh, it’s perfectly safe,” he said. “Short-term exposure wouldn’t harm anyone, but we must follow the government safety guidelines.” Switching on the projector, he asked the men standing in the back to turn off the lights. Following a ten-minute presentation, he concluded, “Three years ago, Westlund Amecor initiated an Environmental Impact Assessment and sought input from your community, along with Baswenaazhi, Makadeshib, and Omashkiigoo. The study supported our plans for two underground mines near the lake’s eastern and western shores, ensuring water quality by containing any tailings and waste product on-site.”

A woman holding a baby said, “How can you be sure it won’t pollute the water? Can you guarantee there won’t be an accident?”

Boom-Ba-Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom

Several people shouted, “Ah-ho,” which they later learned meant, “Yes, I agree.”

Outside, the wind picked up. Distant thunder resonated with the drum. John answered, “We can’t say with certainty an accident won’t happen, but it shouldn’t happen if everyone does their part. Accidents were commonplace in the last century. Either the companies didn’t have the technology to prevent them, or they didn’t care. Since then, technology has come a long way, along with corporate environmental ethics. Paul will discuss the engineering of the mines in more detail and technological advancements. Thanks for your presentation, Clark.”

No thunder from the drum.

Paul took the podium, cleared his throat, and began, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Paul Cadotte, Senior Engineer. Clark’s presentation showed the basic process for mining unconformity-related uraninite. We mine down toward the occurrence, clearing out waste rock until we reach a depth approximately forty meters above the deposit. Due to radiation risks, we use automated processes to remove the ore. Once we have acquired the accessible ore, we switch to an in situ process, using acid to leach the remaining ore from the rock.”

Hushed whispers broke out throughout the crowd. Paul continued, “These processes are occurring deep underground in contained mineshafts. There will be no effect on your surface water. The uraninite ore will be processed underground into uranium oxide concentrate or yellowcake and shipped in lined containers by rail to southern Ontario for refining into nuclear-grade uranium. Estimated yield is twelve thousand tons per mine, per year, over a thirty-year lifespan.”

An elder near the front stood up, braced himself on a chair, and asked, “How much waste will the mines produce?”

Ba-Ba-Boom-Boom-Boom-Ba-Boom

“Considering all the material extracted from a typical mine, we reject forty-two percent as having no viable use, and of the fifty-eight percent remaining, we turn about ninety-six percent into slag and toxic tailings.” The crowd shook its collective head in disbelief. He continued, “Therefore, about two percent becomes a viable product.”

There was more shouting from the crowd, louder. Lighting chased across the sky outside, and thunder roared. The old man pressed on, “Where will the waste go? Into our lake? On our land? Where?”

“Both mines will have an on-site tailings pond to contain the waste. We will construct the retaining walls from waste rock and filler sands, with each wall up to two kilometers wide and twenty to forty meters high.”

The crowd erupted.

Boom-Ba-Boom-Ba-Ba-Ba-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom. 

The drum thundered as many angry spirits spoke. Outside, the wind reached a fever pitch, and lightning flashed. Thunder roared in unison with the drum, echoing in John’s chest. Nausea overwhelmed him, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Paul said over the din. The proposed tailings dam utilizes a downstream construction method that ensures its longevity. Recycled water will cover the waste to negate surface radioactivity and dilute any radon emission. The risk is negligible. We maintain a zero-discharge policy, and our dams meet all federal and provincial regulations for best practices.”

A young woman with notes stood and asked, “The Matachewan dam failure in 1990 released one-hundred-and-ninety-five-thousand cubic meters of toxic waste into the Montreal River watershed. Can you guarantee that won’t happen here? How about the tailing’s dam failure in British Columbia, which filled Pinchey Lake with mercury, or Cobalt, Ontario, where eighty years of silver mining contaminated the water with arsenic, and the people there are getting kidney, liver and brain damage, but that won’t happen here?”

Ba-Ba-Boom-Ba-Boom-Boom-Boom 

Thunder from the drum, while the sky over Nawadjiwon opened and torrential downpour hammered the Community Building.

A young man near the center aisle stood up and said, “Excuse me. Doesn’t in situ leaching require chemical agents such as sulfuric acid, which enters the groundwater through drainage? The muskeg is a sensitive ecosystem. Even trace amounts would be devastating.”

Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom-Boom-Boom.

A woman beside him stood and spoke, “Acid drainage will enter the ecosystem, and when it does, bioaccumulation and biomagnification will decimate our fisheries. Trace amounts will be consumed by small fish, which will be eaten by larger fish and maybe by an eagle. Since the toxins stay in the system, every fish the eagle eats poisons him more. The Mount Washington Mine in British Columbia operated for three years but leached enough toxins into the Tsolum River to decimate the salmon fishery. It’s taken years to restore even a fraction of the population.”

“They’re coming back,” Bill said.

“It never should have happened in the first place,” the woman shouted.

Ba-Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom-Boom

John stood up, fighting dizziness, and tried to answer the young woman. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The Metal Mining Effluent Regulations require acute lethality tests on fish. The effluent and drainage discharge are safe if more than half the test animals survive for ninety-six hours – four days. Mining companies are required to keep regular testing records.”

“Yeah?” the woman replied. “I did my research. In 2010, the McWatters Mine near Timmins was tested twenty-three times and failed twelve. Why did the government allow them to fail the fisheries test twelve times?”

Boom-Boom-Ba-Boom

“When fish sampling in the Albany and Attawapiskat Rivers found toxic methylmercury levels, the government changed the fish advisory from eight meals per month to four. What if that happened here? We wouldn’t survive, or worse, we’d depend on the government.”

Ba-Ba-Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom

The crowd erupted. Several people shouted, “Ah-ho!”

Thunder ripped over Nawadjiwon. John rocked back on his heels, dizzy and disoriented. He sat down. Panic threatened to consume him. A man in the back talking…corridor effect and the railroad, which…I’m going to pass out…disrupting the relationship between predator and prey…Boom-Ba-Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom…

                                                 (A man talking,

                                                                    No, a woman)

                                                                                 … Sedimentation… tissue rotting…

Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom-Boom-Boom.

An elder in the front rose to speak. “Boozhoo, my name is Dory St. Claire, and I’ve lived at Nawadjiwon all my life…seventy-six years. I’m worried about the culture changing. What’ll we do when our men are away all the time? It’ll be hard on the wives, and there’ll be bad relationships. More money, but more crime and more alcohol and drugs. More suicides, too. Less time for fishing. No time for the ceremonies. The young people will lose their connection to the elders and the land and the spirits. What’ll we do, then?”

Angry shouts filled the room.

Boom-Ba-Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom.

“What’ll we do?” the woman repeated. Tears filled her eyes.

John tried to comfort her, but he couldn’t catch his breath. More thunder outside…or inside? Centered in his chest, it echoed. Panic seduced his senses, blocking everything but fear.

A man and woman, husband and wife, stood. The man asked, “How do you explain what happened to the Indians at Sukinda?”

Bill loudly asked, “Dots or feathers?”

The crowd erupted.

Bill chuckled.

The drum roared.

Outside, the storm raged.

John struggled to remain conscious.

“Listen, asshole,” the man yelled. His wife cut across him, “The water in Sukinda, India, was decimated by acid mine drainage. Whole villages are dying from diseases caused by pollution.”

Ba-Ba-Boom-Boom-Ba-Ba-Boom.

Thunder from the drum.

Blurred vision, followed by crushing pain.

Lightning and thunder from above.

Something’s wrong. I’m dying.

Melissa, Brandon.

Rachel. Wendigo War - Part I, Chapter 10.

John clutched his chest, his face contorting in pain. Confusion, panic. As his heart stopped, the room spun. He collapsed to the floor and died.